I love karaoke. It seems like one of the most democratic
pastimes I can imagine. Anyone, with sufficient nerve, can
sing into a microphone to an audience and live out their fantasies
of being a rock star or a country western singer. At least for
the length of a song.

Tonight was karaoke night at Beach Nuts, the tiny open air bar
at the dive resort where we are staying.

At first, Paul, one of the diver masters who was doing double duty
as a DJ spent over an hour begging and cajoling people to sing,
bribing them with shots. It probably comes as little surprise
that the men, regardless of how they sounded,
were much more willing to sing than the women. Perhaps it
is their bravado, or perhaps easier sense of play or perhaps a
different ego.

Laurel had gone to bed, tired after a day that included three deep
sea dives.

I ran to the room. "You've
gotta come out, for at least one song," I said.

I have to hand it to my sister. She was in her nightgown
and got dressed.

“One song, Joanie. Just one song,” she said. “I’m
really tired.”

I told her that would be ok, as long as the one song meant one
that we would sing.

Together.

(Kim:
You have such a great loving relationship with your sister...and
you both
compliment each other so nicely. Liberal and conservative...opposities.)

We
poured through a vinyl bound book with hundreds of titles.
To read the names of songs is to read a cultural history
of more
than four decades of popular Western music.

Funny that many people reject poetry as too highbrow but love
and can retain the words to dozens of songs.

So Laurel and I bellied up to the bar and did our best to
make our way through “My Cherie Amour,” by Stevie
Wonder.

This will not be a crowd pleaser, I told her. For this crowd,
we might do better to pick the Beastie Boys. “You’ve
got to Fight for the Right to Party” or “Margaritaville” by
Jimmy Buffet.

But I didn’t care. I wanted to sing Stevie Wonder,
not the Beastie Boys. So Stevie Wonder it was.

A few minutes later, when the resort manager was trying out
his best Frank Sinatra, a 70ish business man from Rockford,
Illinois
who had been chatting with us, asked Laurel to dance.

To her credit, again, she said, yes.

I am not sure if she would have said yes so much before she
got sick.

I watched her on the crowded dance floor, under the stars,
as this old school gent guided her by the small of her back
around the
floor and felt very happy. Very happy, indeed. And I was most
happy that he had asked Laurel instead of me.